On my days off, my body still wakes
at the same workaday time.
Where I’d normally hit the snooze
to capture fifteen minutes,
instead the whole day stretches blank
before me, gives me thinking hours.
To my nephew a bug is a poem,
Who am I to prove him wrong?
Myself, I move in poems and inches–
the leaves on the oak outside grow and die
on its branches so quick I barely notice them.
I think of the boy one human year ago,
in a different coat, and smaller.
Blink and he’ll be too big to climb.